Yellow Roses, Red Roses
by storytellers
Summary: Sequel to 'Accidental Butterflies'. A story of love and friendship with just a touch of suspense. This one will keep you guessing what's going on the whole time. Ten points to the reader who figures things out before they are revealed.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:**The novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" belongs to Oscar Wilde. The 2009 movie "Dorian Gray" belongs to Momentum Pictures. I claim to be neither and I am making no profit. However, Roderick Lewin belongs to me so yay.

**Warning:** This fic is slash. Not explicit, not dirty, but still slash. As in 'male/male romantic relationship' and not 'cutting something open'. I very much doubt that there are any Dorian Gray fans who have a big problem with that, but if by chance you happen to be offended by such things, proceed no further.

**Author's Note: **This is the sequel to 'Accidental Butterflies' and unfortunately it won't make much sense unless you've read the first. It's also mainly movie based but it's readable even if you haven't watched the movie. For a short summary of important movie/book differences, check part one. The good news is that 'Accidental Butterflies' is not too long so you might as well go and read it. The other good news is that this sequel is finished and I'll update as soon as I'm sure at least one person is reading. Which basically means that just like any author I live on reviews. A few words from you will mean a lot. Feedback is greatly appreciated and worshipped.

* * *

**Prologue**

It had happened so fast – almost without a conscious thought. As if a puppeteer had pulled a string and Dorian's hand had struck.

He watched Basil collapse on the floor, blood pouring down his white shirt and disbelief in his eyes. Dorian's own eyes were full of disbelief, too. This seemed surreal. He remembered taking the piece of glass from the broken mirror and thinking 'If he tries to leave now, I will kill him'. But he hadn't actually meant it, had he? He had just been imagining, pretending. He had been angry at the painter for not understanding. Call a priest? Honestly, Basil!

In Dorian's eyes, it was he who had been betrayed and disappointed. Thoughts that were both bitter and spiteful had run through his head as he had watched his friend's disapproving reflection in the mirror.

_Why can't you just accept me as I am? __Youth and beauty are the two things I have – the only things! What will I do if I lose them? I am good at nothing apart from making people want me. And you know even you wouldn't want me if I was not beautiful. _

_You are always so afraid and ashamed of what you feel. __Do you really want me to be like that too? Oh, Basil, afraid and ashamed is what I had been my whole life before I met Harry. I wanted, I needed something different…_

Then Basil had tried to walk out the door. Walk out with Dorian's secret. His instincts had taken over and what Dorian had only been imagining had played out for real.

Now an overwhelming sense of pity seized him as he looked down at the man on the floor – his first real friend – choking on his own blood. Instantly he wanted to take it all back – both words and actions – and make things right again. He wanted to heal the wounds, to erase the sadness from the painter's features. If he were to kiss Basil right now, it would be sincere.

But, just like with Sybil, those feelings came too late. Both Sybil and Basil had loved him and that was their mistake. Dorian had said it himself once – he turned all love into death.

'God, help me!' he pleaded desperately in a rare moment of true regret.

But there was no thunder or lightening. No giant hand reached from the skies to set things right. In the quiet, dusty air of the attic room he could only hear Basil's failing breaths, his own blood rushing in his ears and an odd sound from the portrait behind his back. Like crumpling paper. He didn't look. He didn't want to. Perhaps it was the sound of his painted skin shriveling and wrinkling.

Suddenly he was angry. What use was regret if it couldn't change anything?

The walls closed around his heart again and the twisted arguments he normally used to silence his conscience returned. Perhaps it was his destiny to experience everything, to know what every sin felt like while the rest of humanity was too afraid to live.

He wrapped a piece of cloth around his hand where he had cut it. He had to finish what he had started. There was no saving Basil now. Dorian had to try and save himself. He could not leave the painter dying on the floor and call for help. They would be too late and what use would it be? He would be hanged for murder and that wouldn't bring Basil back. He had to kill him now and get rid of the body. It was the only thing to do.

He took a step forward.

* * *

**End Note: **Yes, I realize this is basically a repeat of the scene in the movie from Dorian's point of you but I promise you there will be no more of that in later chapters. At all. But this is the prologue after all and I had to start where I left over last time. Bear with me and keep reading, I promise you will get hooked if you have just a little bit of patience.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**The novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" belongs to Oscar Wilde. The 2009 movie "Dorian Gray" belongs to Momentum Pictures. I claim to be neither and I am making no profit. However, Roderick Lewin belongs to me so yay.

**Warning:** This fic is slash. Not explicit, not dirty, but still slash. As in 'male/male romantic relationship' and not 'cutting something open'. I very much doubt that there are any Dorian Gray fans who have a big problem with that, but if by chance you happen to be offended by such things, proceed no further.

**Author's Note: **All right, I know most of you hate original characters but in here I really need them to make the story work. Like I said before, bear with me. Just read it as a piece of literature and ignore the fact that it may not uphold all of your favorite fan fiction clichés, okay? I really think you won't be disappointed in the end.

* * *

**Chapter one**

_**The Truth**_

The gallery was very large and very crowded. It seemed that all of London had gathered to comment on the opening of the so-called _'Exceptional Examples of Modern Art'_ exhibition. Perhaps more surprising than the number of spectators was the sight of so many painters gathered in one room. Those who were featured in the exhibition were conversing animatedly with the visitors, determined to make their own piece the most talked-about painting. Those who were not featured discussed among themselves the many faults of the chosen pictures.

On one end of the hall a small crowd had gathered in front of two life-sized portraits. The portraits stood side by side although they were quite different.

One was a very life-like image of a beautiful young man, so realistic that he almost looked as if he would walk out of the frame any moment.

The second one was completely opposite. This one showed a young girl in a blue dress, standing in the middle of an enchanted garden. Her red hair seemed to be alight with a supernatural glow and she was surrounded by large butterflies which, when one looked closer, turned out to be little fairies.

If the man on the first picture looked as if he would come alive and enter this world, the girl looked as if she could draw you into her own and, stepping over the frame, you would find yourself in the garden with her.

The group currently observing the two portraits consisted of a tall, severe-looking gentleman around fifty with enormous sideburns; a lady, not much younger than him, whose high-pitched and loud voice seemed to compensate for her short stature; a pleasant young couple, newlyweds, judging by the loving glances they were stealing at each other; and a young man in a dark gold waistcoat and wine-red cravat.

"Oh, George, they are so exceptional!" the young woman, Irene Greenaway said, leaning on her husband's arm as she stared up at the images. "And so different! Is it true that they were both painted by the same artist?"

"I believe so, my dear. Look at the signature. Basil Hallward. I wonder who the fellow is. I should very much like to meet him."

"Meet him? Don't you know?" the short woman squealed in her high pitched voice which she then dropped to a deafeningly loud stage whisper. "Why, he was murdered! Stabbed in the throat two years ago! By the very young man you see on this picture!"

"Impossible!" Irene Greenaway exclaimed, her pretty blue eyes filled with horror. "What awful things you say, lady Weatherby! Maybe you find morbid rumors entertaining but even gossip should have its limits! This wonderful boy on the picture – a murderer? And the creator of these two masterpieces – dead? Surely you are mistaken."

"But it's true!" Lady Weatherby assured her. "This wonderful boy, as you call him, Mr. Dorian Gray, took a shard of glass and stabbed his victim in the neck, then ran away when one of their mutual friends unexpectedly entered the room. Poor Mr. Hallward only lasted a few days after that."

"And what became of Dorian Gray?" Lady Greenaway asked, appalled and entranced at the same time by this horrible story.

"Why, he died also or so they say. Killed by the friend who walked in on the scene of the crime. Of course, such a thing was never officially announced but since when does the police ever tell us the truth.

And that's not all the tragedy behind these pictures. The girl on the other portrait is no other than Sybil Vane – Dorian Gray's fiancée. She drowned herself because of him."

"Now you are inventing," Lord Greenaway said skeptically.

"No such thing!" Lady Weatherby persisted. "I know the girl's brother. He is a famous merchant. Why, I won't be surprised if the fabric for your clothes was bought from him!"

George Creenaway considered this for a moment.

"Vane you say? I believe you may be right! And you say this was his sister?"

"Oh, yes, the poor dear. She had the misfortune to fall in love with such a corrupted young man. They say everyone who has ever been in Dorian gray's circle has regretted it. Why, Basil Hallward was one of his closest friends and look what happened to him! Such a talented young man, such promise, such future…"

Lady Weatherby sniffed a bit too theatrically and brushed a non-existent tear from her eye.

"It is a small blessing perhaps that he had no living relatives but can you imagine what his poor friends must have gone through? I imagine they would have been by his side on those final days… Such tragedy! Although it does, of course, make the pictures more interesting."

"But why would he kill the painter, especially if they were friends?" George Greenaway asked, unable to tear his eyes from the painted version of Dorian Gray, whose beauty now seemed to him quite sinister.

"Well, this may not be for your wife's sensitive ears," the older woman said primly, pretending to blush. But after a moment she plunged into the explanation anyway. "You see, there was something going on between Dorian Gray and Basil Hallward. People who knew them claim that the painter was unusually fond of the boy, almost possessive. They say they might have been more than friends. They say the two were seen on the night Hallward was stabbed…" she dropped her voice even lower, "…kissing! Perhaps it was a crime of passion!"

The gentleman with the sideburns, who had stayed silent until then, sternly surveying his companions and waiting for the right moment to join in, wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"A crime of lust, you mean. If you ask me, if it had anything to do with that, it's more likely to have been the painter's fault. I appreciate art but I detest artists. They are weird folk with unnatural proclivities. At least Dorian Gray was most known for corrupting young women and not other men. The way you describe it, Hallward might have tried to force himself on the boy and gotten stabbed in self-defense. And if he was so possessive, maybe he even killed the girl. After all, is it certain she killed herself? And even if it is as you say, maybe it is a good thing this Hallward is dead because I doubt I would have liked him. I don't believe I could even stand in the same room with a man with such… desires. Not to mention that as an artist he would have bored us all with a million interpretations of his work which would have greatly decreased our own pleasure. Look at the other poor guests at this opening – they are constantly being ambushed by painters trying to promote themselves."

Both of the Greenaways looked quite appalled by this speech but Lady Weatherby seemed unperturbed. This was mostly due to the fact that she had not listened carefully at all. She rarely ever listened to what she herself said and she saw no reason to do it for others.

"You, sir, are quite wrong, I assure you."

They all turned to the man in the gold waistcoat whom they had barely noticed until then. He had spoken in a voice that was emotional, yet hard as steel. "Suppose that I tell you I know exactly what happened in the days before and after Basil Hallward was stabbed."

"I don't see how you could know better than I, young man!" Lady Weatherby protested. "My information comes from most trusted sources."

"I beg to differ, madam. Your information is incomplete at best. But since speculation is so much more entertaining than facts, I won't try to take your pleasure away."

"Oh, please, do tell us what you know!" Irene Greenaway beseeched him. "I would have preferred to know nothing of this story to begin with. But now that I have heard so much, I am eager to find out which of it is the truth!"

The man glanced into the eyes of the young woman and perhaps the honesty in them won him over.

"Very well, then. The truth is this…"

* * *

**End Note:** And in the next chapter the actual story finally begins. Here's a question for you before you read any further: what do YOU think really happened? It would be lovely if you could tell me your opinion on that or anything else in a review :).


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**The novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" belongs to Oscar Wilde. The 2009 movie "Dorian Gray" belongs to Momentum Pictures. I claim to be neither and I am making no profit. However, Roderick Lewin belongs to me so yay.

**Warning:** This fic is slash. Not explicit, not dirty, but still slash. As in 'male/male romantic relationship' and not 'cutting something open'. I very much doubt that there are any Dorian Gray fans who have a big problem with that, but if by chance you happen to be offended by such things, proceed no further.

**Author's Note:** Please, cheer me up with a review, I was feeling so sick today on the way back from work that I apparently got careless and lost my wallet. Idiot. I guess bad things come in threes :(((.

Anyways, I wanted to say that I have to credit old copies of the British Medical Journal from the Victorian era for this chapter. I went and did my research properly to see what was possible and what not. I found the journals in question very interesting to read, although a few of my friends looked at me a little weird when they saw I seemed to be very interested in cutting and stabbing people's throats ;P.

* * *

**Chapter two**

_**Words**_

Rody struggled to see through his tears and his hands itched to curl around Dorian's throat. If only he had been there five minutes earlier! He must have felt something was wrong tonight because he could not seem to go further than about twenty yards from Dorian's house. Something had made him come back, bang on the door until it was opened by a sleepy servant, push him aside almost knocking him to the ground and search every inch until he had found Dorian's secret room. He had been worried to the point of panic without knowing why. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight he encountered as he opened the door. Dorian had been kneeling next to the bloody form of Basil Hallward lying on the floor but at the sound of the door opening he had shot up. He had stared at the newcomer like a cornered animal for a moment. Then he had charged, pushed him to the floor and run out the door.

That had been almost ten minutes ago. Rody had shouted at the servant to get a surgeon. Dorian had disappeared before he could even fully comprehend what was going on. But he vowed that if Basil died tonight, he would personally find James Vane and team up with him to hunt down and kill this monster.

Pushing thoughts of vengeance aside for the moment, he focused on keeping his friend alive, at least until help arrived.

Basil spat more blood as he turned him to the side but at least now he wasn't entirely drowning in it. Trying to think clearly, Rody did all he could to stop the bleeding from the wound and secure the glass in place. He thanked his diseased father for teaching him a thing or two. At the very least he knew it was dangerous to remove the object from the wound.

Now all he could do was hold Basil's hand and talk nonsense that were perhaps meant to be reassuring but he wasn't even certain the painter could register what he was saying. Rody didn't register it himself. There were a few words just at the tip of his tongue that begged to be said but he was terrified that if he said them, it would mean admitting defeat. It would mean accepting that Basil would die and he would never get another chance.

After what seemed like ages, the door opened again and the surgeon rushed in. From then on, Rody's thoughts blurred into one continuous, fervent prayer.

* * *

Night turned into a watery gray morning, barely detectable through the boarded windows of the attic room. Minutes ticked by. Each one was met with fear and sent off with short-lived relief that the worst had not yet happened. Basil's pulse had become almost non-existent, so every time the doctor checked for it, it took agonizingly long to determine if it was still there. Rody had stopped asking questions an hour ago. The doctor had been patient enough with his explanations but there was very little he could tell. The glass had hit a large vein and a few smaller blood vessels. There was a relatively small tear in the pharynx. As far as he could tell, the vocal cords had not been touched, which he tried to present as good news but Rody hardly cared about that at the moment. Being able to talk would be quite irrelevant if Basil didn't survive at all. The doctor had removed the glass, clamped a few blood vessels and declared that all they could do was wait.

Rody ran his fingers through Basil's hair and wiped blood from his mouth without even registering what he was doing. The movements had become mechanical after so many hours.

He was looking at the portrait. He had not noticed it at first, preoccupied as he had been with keeping his friend alive. But when the adrenalin had drained away and panic had turned into dull, almost catatonic expectation, his eyes had fallen on it. Rody had always approached supernatural concepts with a healthy dose of skepticism but he had never completely denied the existence of higher powers. And now the proof was before his eyes. Proof of the existence of demons, if not God.

At first he had thought it was not the same picture but one side of Dorian's face was still recognizable, while the other had become ugly and disfigured. And there was Basil's signature at the bottom left corner. His own butterflies were still hanging to the curtain, although…

His hand froze on Basil's hair. There were only two! He narrowed his eyes to see better. The room was dark and his sight was still blurry from tears but as far as he could tell, one butterfly was missing. Sudden fear gripped his heart as he remembered what he had thought when he had drawn them.

_One for each of us._

This, more than anything, made him feel hopeless. Was this some kind of horrible warning? Was it certain then, that Basil would die?

Suddenly he felt trapped. He wanted to get out of this nightmare and rejoin the real world. The room felt like a time capsule and everything outside was moving a lot faster than inside. By this time the house must have been brimming with police but they had only come into this room once, after which the doctor had forbidden them to disturb them anymore and very firmly told them that their investigation would have to wait until Basil could be moved or... Or. The awkward pause at the end of the sentence had hung in the air so heavily that it had suddenly seemed to thicken and become almost suffocating. The officers had retreated, resolving to question witnesses instead.

About noon Basil started coming to his senses. Rody didn't dare take that as a good sign. He found it scary, if anything, that the painter was aware of what was going on. He stroked his forehead again and whispered reassurances he was not sure he believed while the doctor droned in the background in a professional voice:

"Don't try to move, Mr. Hallward. You have been badly injured but we have stopped the bleeding. Your vocal cords do not appear to have been damaged but I advise you not to try to speak for now. Just rest. When you are well enough, we will move you somewhere more comfortable…"

Neither of them was listening. Rody was trying to keep a straight face for Basil's sake and he was sure Basil was doing the same for his.

It was a few more hours before the doctor decided they should move. Rody was still reluctant to allow it until the doctor offered his own home, which was only on the opposite side of the road.

On their way out of the building they passed Harry and his wife. Rody doubted anyone had ever seen the confident, nonchalant, impossible to disturb Henry Wotton look so shell-shocked. Victoria was holding on to his arm and Rody got the impression she was the only thing keeping him upright. It was a confirmation of what he had always known. Underneath it all, Harry cared more than he showed. Maybe right now he wished he _had_ shown it.

* * *

To Rody's relief, Basil didn't seem to worsen in any way as a result of the journey. He slept all right that night but Rody himself didn't at all. By the next morning he was so tired he could hardly keep his head up. He was sitting in a chair next to Basil's bed, staring out the window and fighting to keep awake when he felt a light touch on his hand.

"_You should sleep."_

It was the quietest of whispers but still understandable.

Rody froze, looked down at Basil's hand over his and broke down in sobs, leaning over the armrest.

"_Oh, hush now. It will be fine,"_ the painter whispered, stroking his hair.

Rody wanted to tell him to shut up and save his strength but he could hardly draw enough breath to speak himself. Strangely enough, the only words that managed to leave his mouth were the ones he had been choking on the previous night.

"I love you."

* * *

"_Revolting," the man with the sideburns muttered but he made no move to leave. He seemed as eager to find out the rest as the others._

"_Well, he might have just meant it as a friend," Lord Greenaway suggested._

"_He might have," the storyteller agreed. "After all, Lord Henry Wotton said the same words that day and I am quite sure he had no romantic feelings for Basil Hallward. Basil himself never asked exactly what Rody had meant. Perhaps because he didn't want to embarrass him. Or perhaps because he was afraid the answer may not be what he had hoped for."_

"_I wonder if he knew he had only a few days to live," Lady Greenaway said sadly. "It's even more awful if they were in love! No, don't snort like that, sir! I find it very improper of you!"_

_The last had been directed at the gentleman with the sideburns, who was showing his disapproval quite clearly. Even Lord Greenaway was looking at him indignantly._

"_Please, continue," Lady Greenaway said after a moment. "I seem unable to tear myself away, although I know I won't like the ending."_

"_I must agree with you," the storyteller said with a sigh. "Unfortunately this story did not have a happy ending. I suppose all of the characters in it could be blamed for that, although in the case of Mr. Roderick Lewin, I really have no idea what he could have done better."_

"_There is something that's unclear to me, though," Lord Greenaway said thoughtfully. "The way you describe it, Mr. Hallward seemed to be getting better and yet we know he only had a few days to live. Did he die of infection?"_

_The storyteller inclined his head to the side and a small, sad smirk played on his lips._

"_My dear friend, you are relying on Lady Weatherby's words. __**I **__never said he died."_

* * *

_  
_

**End Note:** Le Gasp! Did I get you there? Did you really think Basil was dead? I'd love to know :). So if you want to know what's next, leave me a review - that always gives me the kick I need to upload the next chapter.


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:**The novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" belongs to Oscar Wilde. The 2009 movie "Dorian Gray" belongs to Momentum Pictures. I claim to be neither and I am making no profit. However, Roderick Lewin belongs to me so yay.

**Warning:** This fic is slash. Not explicit, not dirty, but still slash. As in 'male/male romantic relationship' and not 'cutting something open'. I very much doubt that there are any Dorian Gray fans who have a big problem with that, but if by chance you happen to be offended by such things, proceed no further.

**Author's Note: **I don't know if it's noticeable but at this point in the story I watched the movie 'Wilde' with Stephen Fry and Jude Law and it was definitely an inspiration for some things. You may not be able to see any connection at all but either way watch the movie if you haven't. Spectacular casting and acting.

* * *

**Chapter three**

_**The Funeral**_

"Oh, Harry! Good thing you are still here. There is something I want to talk to you both about."

Rody threw his coat over the back of a chair and sat at the foot of Basil's bed, facing both Basil and Harry, who was sitting next to the bed.

"Most dreaded words in the English language," Harry muttered. "Well, what is it?"

"I spoke to the police inspector today," Rody informed them. "There is no trace of Dorian. That… bothers me a lot."

A quick grimace crossed Harry's features at the mention of Dorian's name before dissolving as if it had not existed.

"Well, dear boy, it bothers all of us but I don't see what can be done about it."

"A few things could be done!" Rody disagreed. "First of all… Basil, we have to destroy the portrait."

There was instantly a look of horror on the painter's face.

"_Destroy it?__" _his voice was still very quiet but full of alarm._ "But what will happen to Dorian? He said that picture was his soul. One cannot live without a soul."_

"All the better," Rody muttered.

Basil tried to shake his head but winced at the action and stared imploringly at Rody instead.

"_You wouldn't. Not you. Or am I cursed to misjudge all of my friends?"_

Rody gave him a helpless look.

"Oh, Basil… You always believe the best of people and that's the most wonderful thing about you, but it shouldn't be at the cause of your own safety! I want to be what you think I am but at the same time… What kind of person would not hate the man who has hurt someone they love? What kind of person wouldn't want them dead?"

"_One like you."_

Rody sighed and stared at his hands for a few moments.

"All right, yes. I admit you are right. I don't want Dorian dead. But that fact makes me feel ashamed, if anything! Do you know how valuable you are, Basil? For what he did, I _should _want to rip him apart. And if I don't… It's like I am betraying you."

"_Rody, that's ridiculous. So far you are proving to be the only person who has never betrayed me."_

"But, my dear fellow," Harry addressed Basil with disbelief in his voice, "you don't mean to tell me you still care for Dorian Gray after what he did to you!"

"_I pity him, Harry, and so should you. I cannot simply erase from my memory the Dorian Gray I once knew. I see now that I made too many allowances and forgave too easily but I cannot want him dead. You both have to promise me! I could not bear it if any more of my friends proved to be capable of murder. Especially because of me."_

"Because of you?" Harry asked in astonishment. "My dear fellow, what have you to do with any of this? I'm afraid it would rather be because of me…"

"_You already apologized, Harry but it's unnecessary. I know I blamed you for the whole thing but I see now that Dorian's choices were his own. What I meant was that if you want me to be well, you would do better to give me some piece of mind. Don't hurt anyone for my sake; it will only cause me pain." _

There was a brief silence. Then Harry nodded.

"If that is what you wish, I give you my word that I will not lay hands on Dorian himself or the portrait, unless it is to save someone's life from direct danger."

"I promise, too," Rody said. "But then I have to insist on my other suggestion. I am afraid that if Dorian learns you are alive, Basil, he might come back to finish what he started. Therefore… I want to hold a fake funeral."

Basil's brow wrinkled.

"_A fake funeral? You want to pretend I'm dead?"_

Rody nodded.

"We can say there were complications and you eventually died from the wound. I have spoken to the doctor. He won't contradict us publicly, as long as the police know about it. Then when you are well enough, we can leave London. I will hire a house in the country. We can stay there until Dorian is caught or at least until you have fully recovered."

"Extreme as that may sound, maybe it is a reasonable precaution," Harry said slowly. "But you have to leave someone here to manage your finances. The price of your paintings will rise to the skies once people hear you have been murdered."

Basil gave him an exasperated look.

"_Always the cynic… The__n you can manage them. I care very little about that now."_

"So we can do it?" Rody asked.

Basil's forehead creased in thought again. Faking his own death was a strange thought. But simply disappearing, leaving everything behind was so horribly tempting right now that he could hardly resist the urge. He had been trying hard to look at the situation clinically and not give way to his emotions. But even being across the street from Dorian's house upset him more than he cared to admit. And wherever he went in London, something would remind him of Dorian. He wanted to get away.

"_So be it," _he said at last.

* * *

For once, Lord Henry Wotton was disgusted with his peers. The rumors had started right after the news of Basil Hallward's death had reached London's upper class. The painter's body would not have even grown cold (had the news been true) before all of his art, character and actions were put under the microscope. His relationships with Dorian and other men (Lord Henry himself was not mentioned, at least not to his face) were dissected and criticized as if they were a controversial work of fiction and not part of a real person's life.

If Harry had been angry at some of the comments, then Rody had been positively livid. He had told Harry that the sooner they could move to the country, the better, before he lost his temper and punched someone at the dinner table.

Then there was the funeral.

Harry felt slightly paranoid. As he stood in the middle of the cemetery on that unusually clear and sunny day, he could not shake off the feeling that Dorian was watching from somewhere. He kept looking around and barely paid attention to what was happening.

That was until Rody stepped forward to speak over the coffin.

It was a little known fact that Roderick Lewin wrote both poetry and prose. Aside from a few funny verses in mockery of interesting public figures that he had recited at parties, none of his friends had ever read or heard his works. As rumor had it, he sometimes sent them to people he _didn't_ know. For unbiased opinion, perhaps.

Harry had never thought much of that little hobby, just as he had never thought much of his painting, which Roddy himself admitted was simply a way for an averagely talented but very rich young man to waste his time. Today though, almost as soon as his young friend opened his mouth, he knew he had been ignorant on more than one account.

Rody took out a piece of paper and unfolded it, lowering his eyes to read it. Then he seemed to decide he didn't need it and fixed his unwavering gaze on the small crowd instead.

"I don't know if it's for better or for worse that Basil has never heard this, but I thought that all of you should. Some of you have been asking me about my opinion regarding your recent… discussions about Basil's life. Well, if there is any doubt about where I stand, this should clear it up. This is what I have to say to you and to Basil.

_We always search for definitions _

_That we will later redefine._

_We wonder if there are conditions,_

_We wonder where to draw the line. _

_And being wrong's the price of learning_

_And there are always things unlearned_

_But we cannot stop lighting fires_

_Just because we once got burned._

_We always look for absolution,_

_We're often absolutely wrong._

_There's always more than one solution,_

_More than one place where we belong._

_And maybe I could do without you – _

_That only makes my love more real._

_It starts with what I know about you_

_And ends with what you make me feel. _

_You can't put beauty in a frame_

_Or true love in a box_

_Society will praise some day_

_The things that now it mocks_

_And I won't choose to freeze my heart_

_For fear of being judged._

_Tomorrow they will seek from us_

_The kindness the begrudged. _

_Misunderstanding love and passion_

_Is maybe our worst mistake._

_May it be clear with this confession_

_That you can have this heart to break._

_But if you have the love to love me_

_And honest kisses to return_

_With their sacred imperfection_

_Two suns will shine, two worlds will turn."_

The last verse was met with absolute silence. People stared as Rody put the paper back in his pocket and threw a yellow rose on top of the coffin. No one dared say anything.

Harry stared too but for a different reason. There had been such genuine emotion in Rody's voice that for a moment he had almost believed Basil was really dead. He shook the feeling off quickly and took a look around the stunned crowd. He would have to come up with a way to break the silence soon.

Victoria beat him to it. She walked up to Rody and kissed him on the cheek.

"That was beautiful, dear. I'm sure he appreciates it, wherever he is."

The spell was broken. People started nodding their heads and smiling sadly, as if there was a universal agreement to forget what had just happened. But Harry knew they would remember. The poem had been a statement. A brave and maybe even dangerous one. Rody had never cared too much for public opinion, but until now he had not done much to put himself in people's mouths either. Well, Harry though, this had finally done the trick. With a bang. It was a pity Basil wasn't here.

"Yellow roses mean friendship," Harry said to Rody while they were leaving. "Why not a red one?"

"Friendship is more important than love," Rody answered. "And lasts longer."

* * *

After the funeral, Rody went home, resigning himself to the fact that he would have to wait till evening before he could see Basil. It would not do for people to catch him paying a visit to a dead man.

He spent the rest of the day pacing his room restlessly and picking random objects up just to put them back down again. When it was finally dark he caught a hansom to the doctor's house.

Basil blinked in surprise as Rody marched into his room, stopped in front of the bed and just stared at him for a full minute.

"_What's wrong?"_ he asked finally.

"I just buried you today," his friend answered in a tight voice.

"_Oh," _Basil considered this for a moment._ "So, was the ceremony any good?"_

He had thought about it and decided that humor was the best policy in this case. He was hoping to get Rody to see things that way too. Especially since his friend looked more distressed about the situation than he himself had been.

It worked. Rody blinked at him before bursting in relieved laughter.

"It was beautiful," he answered as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"_Were there flowers?"_

"Yellow roses."

"_No poppies?"_

"They were too sad to come."

"_I see. Poor things, I've put them through a lot lately. And what did you say about me?"_

Rody hesitated for a moment.

"I… said that you were a nice fellow, although a bit unimaginative when it came to painting."

"_Unimaginative?"_

"Meaning that you only ever painted what you saw. When you were trying to make a portrait of a young woman, you always ended up with a young woman and not an old man, as I might have done. Which was less interesting. But I loved you anyway."

It was Basil's turn to laugh, which caused a coughing fit.

"Oh, Basil, I'm sorry!" Roddy apologized, torn between worry for causing his friend pain and joy for seeing him laugh for the first time in a while.

"Mr. Lewin, please don't try to kill my patient," the doctor who was just entering the room chastised him.

"_It's not a bad way to die __– laughing,"_ Basil observed.

"Not a bad way to live either," said Rody with a smile.

* * *

Lord Henry put down his book as he became aware of his wife observing him carefully.

"Is there anything you want, my dear?"

"You looked rather distracted at the funeral today," Victoria remarked with a carefully neutral tone.

"Well, Basil was a good friend of mine. You could hardly expect me to be myself after such a tragedy."

"I wouldn't. But you didn't seem to be stricken with grief, Harry. You were much more shocked when you first heard that he had been stabbed. For God's sake, I was there with you and I thought you might faint! You went pale as a sheet. And then two days ago, when you told me of Basil's death, you seemed completely unaffected. Or rather, you seemed to be acting affected. Acting badly. Today was the same."

"I don't know what you mean."

She stood up, walked to his armchair and, to his surprise, kneeled on the floor in front of it, taking his hands in hers.

"Harry, whatever rumors may say, and whatever sins you may commit behind my back, I know I did not marry a heartless man. And, in spite of what you may think, I know you. That is why I will ask you a question. I know I may be gravely disappointed by the answer but I have to ask. And I beg you to answer me truthfully. Harry… is Basil Hallward really dead?"

Lord Henry opened his mouth, closed it, considered… and for the first time in years decided to trust his wife with one of his secrets.

* * *

_"So, Rody Lewin really recited that poem in front of all those people?" George Greenaway asked, seemingly unable to decide if he was disapproving or impressed._

_"He did indeed. Just as I recited it to you."_

_"Oh, that must have been the talk of the month at least!" Lady Weatherby said excitedly. "I have no idea how I have missed such a thing! Do you think you could write the poem down for me?"_

_"Lady Weatherby!" Irene Greenaway shouted indignantly. "You plan to show it to everyone you know, don't you? Such things are only meant to be read by appreciative eyes. I found it profoundly beautiful."_

_"Then you shall have a copy of it," the storyteller said unexpectedly, taking a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and handing it to Lady Greenaway._

_The young woman took it tentatively, looking at him in wonder._

_"Sir, we never asked you…"_

_He interrupted her with a wave of his hand._

_"I know what you want to ask me. But, with your permission, I will tell you after I finish the story. Don't you want to find out the ending?"_

_"Certainly!"_

_"There is one thing I want to know – if you can answer my question at all," Lord Greenaway said. "What happened to Dorian Gray?"_

_The storyteller was silent for a moment. Then he turned to the portrait of the young man and pointed at a particular place._

_"Do you see it? You have to look carefully. It has been repaired but you can still notice…"_

_"I believe I _**_can_**_ see something!" Lord Greenaway exclaimed. "It looks like it has been torn with a knife."_

_"Stabbed," the storyteller corrected him._

_"So Mr. Lewin broke his promise?" Lady Weatherby suggested._

_The storyteller shook his head._

_"Roderick Lewin was not a man to easily break a promise, especially one given to such a dear friend. Basil should have known that, yet he did suspect him for a time. But something else entirely had happened…"_

* * *

_  
_

**End Note:** Puh-leeease, let me know what you think. Not because I don't like my own story but because it's just so wonderful to read comments on one's story. Not to mention you'll read the next chapter a lot sooner if you review.


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer and warnings: **You should know by now. If you don't see other chapters.

**Author's Note:** Many thanks to the people who reviewed (all two of you). I appreciate it very much and I hope you enjoy this chapter which is the longest in the story. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

* * *

**Chapter four**

_**Things Left Unsaid**_

The letter arrived on the day after the funeral and left Lord Henry staring disbelievingly at the neat delicate script. At first he thought it had to be a fake. But the handwriting was unmistakable and when he grabbed the morning edition of The Globe, the headline that stared at him from the front page erased his doubts. It read: MURDERER'S HOUSE ON FIRE

The article announced that Dorian Gray's house had been set on fire the previous night. The upper floors had been completely destroyed before the fire brigade had been able to do anything about it.

Lord Henry reread that article three times. Then he picked up the letter again. The thin, spider-web letters curled on the paper and seemed to speak with a voice like a whispered epitaph.

_Dear Harry,_

_By the time you read this letter I will probably be gone from this world. Now that Basil is dead, I know it is only a matter of time before my picture is exposed to everyone. If you still don't know what I am talking about, I am certain that you shall find out very soon from Roderick. _

_I cannot bear the world to see the ugliness of my soul. I killed a man to prevent that from happening and I can never allow it. Some things are too personal. What is on that picture, be it holy or cursed, is mine and mine alone to behold. I should have never shown it to Basil and Roderick should have never seen it. There is only one way to make sure this never happens again. I have resolved to destroy my picture. And with it I am certain that I shall destroy myself, for one cannot live without a soul. _

_I am sorry for some of the things I did, not all. A lot of what you taught me, I still believe in. _

_But I am truly sorry__ for Basil._

_If no one had found out, I could have pretended it was not my doing. But now that everyone knows, I am forced to face the horrible sin that I have committed. In the last few days I made a deal with God that if Basil survived, I would turn myself in and bear the consequences__, try to atone for my sins. But God doesn't listen to our prayers as the Devil does. There is no such thing as redemption. Yes, I have nailed my soul to the Devil's altar and Hell shall welcome me with open arms. _

_Still, I want this curse to end with me and not spread among the people I have hurt. Everything I possess must go to the family of Sybil Vane. I have enclosed my will. You must see to it that it is fulfilled. _

_Goodbye, Harry, and I hope __someday you will all forgive me. _

_Dorian Gray_

The envelope did indeed contain the aforementioned will, along with other books necessary to its fulfillment. Lord Henry leafed through the legal papers which appeared to all be in order. Then he sat at his writing desk and, trying to be clinical, thought about the implications of this new development.

There were plenty.

First, a former close friend of his was dead.

After what had happened to Basil, he had thought that he would always hate Dorian Gray. But now that Basil was alive and recovering and it was Dorian who was dead, he could not deny he felt a pang of grief. Something was definitely lost. Perhaps it had been lost already, long before this day, and he had simply not noticed. He could see it now, albeit in retrospect – when the very thing which had mesmerized everyone when they had first met Dorian, his charming innocence, had withered away, so had the very essence of the man. Had it really been his work?

He had never dreamed that his words could bring about the ruin of someone's soul. He still did not believe it. There must have been something dark in Dorian to begin with. Still, Lord Henry now wished he had had nothing to do with it…

The second implication of the letter was that Basil did not have to pretend he was dead anymore. Rody's plan would not need to be fulfilled.

Although this could be considered good news, there was one thing that worried him. There was no telling just how distressed the painter would be over Dorian's death. Had he heard about the fire already? He must have. The doctor normally brought him a paper. Not to mention that the commotion might very well have been heard from just across the street. Should Harry even tell him about the letter? Chances were it would only upset him more… But then again, he would learn eventually, wouldn't he? They had to show the letter to the police. It was proof that the man they were trying to catch was dead. Or could they just let them continue the search for Dorian until they gave up? No, this was bordering on crime and Henry had always managed to steer clear of that. He left the matter undecided for the moment.

The third thing was Dorian's will.

He suppressed his first instinct to dismiss it as unreasonable, rash and overly romantic. His opinions would only matter if he could actually tell them to Dorian. As it was, he could only fulfill his wishes. He saw no reason not to. That probably meant that James Vane and his mother would suddenly find themselves very rich. Well, stranger things had happened…

He sent a telegram to his lawyer to find the family and take care of the details. He didn't want to have much to do with the affair. Then he spent the rest of his morning trying to figure out what to do about Basil.

Around noon Roderick Lewin was shown into his room. He looked quite upset.

"Dorian is dead," he announced as soon as he walked in.

"I know," Harry said, slightly surprised, "but how do you?"

Rody dropped into a chair.

"I went to Dorian's house as soon as I heard about the fire. I was there when they found the portrait among the rubble. Dorian's portrait, Harry, hardly a mark on it except for a tear in the heart of the figure! And it has been restored to its original condition. It's beautiful again."

"Incredible! How could it have survived the fire?"

"It couldn't have. It seems impossible. But I have witnessed enough strange things this past week to believe anything. Especially when I see it with my own eyes."

"Does Basil know?"

"Yes. I could not lie to him, he would have found out anyway. Harry, he thinks I did it! He doesn't say so but I can tell he thinks it. And he won't forgive me for it either! Just the way he looked at me this morning… How am I ever going to convince him I had nothing to do with it? I can't imagine what really happened there. I told Basil that we didn't know for sure if this meant Dorian was dead but… It… It wasn't you, was it?"

"Certainly not!" Henry exclaimed. "Can you honestly imagine me sneaking around at night to light a house on fire? And, as it happens, I know what really happened."

He produced the letter and handed it to Rody with an air of relief.

"You have just solved my own dilemma. I was debating whether I should show this to Basil but now I have no choice."

Rody took the piece of paper and his lips parted in surprise as he read it.

"Good God," he said finally.

"I know. Basil was right. I do pity Dorian now. But this at least concludes the story. We won't have to worry anymore."

"I'm afraid that, as far as I'm concerned, it concludes very little," Rody said with a sigh. "It's one more thing to weigh on Basil's mind. He didn't want this. And the way Dorian writes it, it sounds like he killed himself because he thought Basil was dead. I am afraid he will blame all three of us now for faking that."

"But that's ludicrous! We are no more responsible for Dorian's suicide than he was for Sybil's! I should say less! Either way, Basil can blame me for whatever he likes – I have grown quite accustomed to it and it's not like he has no reason. But you, dear boy, he should only thank! How horribly hypocritical good people are! They are ready to forgive every sinner but are often unforgiving to a saint!"

"I am hardly a saint, Harry."

"At least towards Basil, you have been! Why, you have been more reasonable and patient than I would have ever deemed possible from one as young as you!"

"Then you don't give young people enough credit."

"I give them a great deal more credit than I give old people. Old people are set in their ways. Young people can change, develop. And that, my friend, is what we exist for. Basil is a young man but he sometimes insists on acting as an old one. You are the only one who has ever managed to change that, to make him take risks. That portrait he painted of Sybil? That was all inspired by you."

"I have no wish to change Basil, Harry. I love him as he is."

"Oh, but it's not a matter of wishing. You will change him as sure as he will change you. At least if the two of you continue to spend long periods of time together. Now let's go and talk to him. This letter is proof that neither of us has broken our promise."

* * *

An hour later two men standing awkwardly in the middle of a room were watching a third with a mix of surprise and worry.

"What do you mean you don't want people to know you are alive?" Harry asked, frowning.

Basil's whole reaction was confusing him. He had expected everything from relief to tears but the painter had just stared at the letter for a time, after which he had announced that he wished to remain dead to the public eye for now.

"But there is no reason for you to hide!" Harry insisted. "Now that Dorian is… Now that there is no danger, as soon as you are well, we can just get on with our lives."

"_I cannot just get on with my life, Harry__."_

It was a very quiet and calm statement. Harry hesitated.

"Well, maybe not right away but…"

"_Yes, not right away. I need some time. __Please, do that for me."_

Harry spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.

"All right then. We'll keep up the charade for a while. But, Basil, don't think for a moment that you will be left alone. Solitude is only becoming to old people. Yes, aged, wrinkled novel writers at the end of their lives, who sit in dusty rooms in old houses and try to say everything about the world in one final masterpiece. They end up saying so much that no one wants to read it. Real people are the only thing that is truly inspiring."

"_Inspiring for what, Harry?"_

"For life, as well as art."

"_I fear I may be done with art. As you yourself once said, it is quite useless."_

"Life is quite useless as well, unless you turn it into art."

"_That's a pretty paradox but it doesn't mean anything."_

"Either way, my dear man, you are being quite silly. You are not done with art. You will get better and you will forget. We all will. The secret to happiness is simply good health and bad memory. After all, this is such a small part of our lives."

"_More has happened in this small part of my life than during all the rest of it."_

"Then you have to make sure even more happens in the future. Life is like a glass of wine. How can one get drunk if he doesn't constantly refill it?"

This got him a small chuckle from Basil.

"_Oh, Harry..."_

Rody's smile was hesitant and distracted.

His friendship with Basil had been tried before but it had seemed to effortlessly weave its way around all obstacles in the past. This time it would be harder. He could feel it.

* * *

Left alone in his room, Basil Hallward picked up Dorian's letter again. Harry had forgotten to take it back. Or maybe he had left it on purpose.

Basil had managed to stay composed while his friends had been there. The last thing he had wanted was to cry on Rody's shoulder again. These days he seemed to be dependent on the boy for the very oxygen he breathed. It scared him. His obsession with Dorian had started in a similar way. Such a thing could bring nothing good to him or Rody. For that reason, he had done his best to control his emotions during today's visit. But now he looked at the familiar writing and his vision blurred. Fragments of the letter repeated over and over in his mind.

'_I cannot bear the world to see the ugliness of my soul…'_

'_I made a deal with God that if Basil survived…'_

'_But God doesn't listen to our prayers as the Devil does.'_

'_I hope someday you will all forgive me.'_

'If only' were the cruelest words in the world, Basil thought. Yet his mind could not stop repeating them, despite the painful lump in his chest.

"_Oh, Dorian…__How many times can a heart break before it stays that way forever?"_

_

* * *

  
_

With the help of Harry who now had control over his funds, Basil managed to compensate the doctor quite well for his troubles of keeping a permanent house-guest. He and his wife were a pleasant couple whose children had all left home by that time so they didn't seem to really mind having another person to converse with from time to time. With the addition of Harry's, Rody's and sometimes even Victoria's visits, Basil felt reasonably entertained while he was recovering. But a month and a half later the wound was completely healed and it was clear that he could not spend the rest of his life confined to a room.

For Rody the last month had been nerve-wrecking. He couldn't understand exactly what was going on. Basil seemed happy to see him as always. But when they talked, he seemed guarded and reluctant to share anything. In addition, Rody himself was increasingly aware that he was beginning to act like a petulant child. He was out of patience. He had earned Basil's attention, if nothing else, and this sudden distance between them was making him angry, as well as worried.

"You can't forgive me, can you?" he finally confronted Basil one evening.

This time he had been unable to ignore his friend's careful skirting of any topic that was remotely personal or emotional.

Basil had looked at him, startled.

"For the world of me, Rody, I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Dorian. I'm talking about Dorian, Basil! Don't look at me like that! He is dead and your world still revolves around him!"

At the mention of the name, Basil's expression had closed completely. Rody felt as if a door had been slammed in his face. But he wasn't about to stop now.

"It was my idea to say you were dead and you blame me for Dorian's suicide! Admit it!"

The lack of answer only served to propel him forward.

"It's not fair, Basil! I was only worried about you and you know that! You have no right to judge me harder than you judge the man who tried to kill you!"

Basil fixed him with a steady look.

"Rody, I am not judging you…"

"This past six weeks you have been acting like you don't care if I'm alive or dead!"

"You have it completely wrong!"

"I obviously have a lot of things completely wrong, Basil. Our whole friendship, for example."

"Rody, stop this!"

"Do you even want me here?"

"Rody, _please..._"

"Answer me!"

There was ringing silence as Rody waited for a response. After a few moments he nodded bitterly.

"I guess not then."

He picked his coat up and left the room.

He had failed to notice that Basil's knuckles were white from gripping the back of one of the chairs. If they hadn't stayed firmly there, he would have grabbed the other man and kissed him. And he would have regretted it later. More, he was sure, than he was now regretting not doing it.

Basil released the chair and rubbed his face with his hands. He could not continue like this.

The next morning both Rody and Harry received a telegram stating that Basil was preparing to leave for Paris in only a few days' time.

* * *

_"And that, I'm afraid, is pretty much it," the storyteller concluded._

_"Oh, no!" Lady Greenaway exclaimed. "What story ends like this?"_

_"I'm afraid this one does."_

_"Surely he didn't really leave for Paris!"_

_"He did."_

_"But… What happened to them after that?"_

_"Not much. The rest is not worth telling. At least not what I know of it."_

_"But did they ever see each other again?"_

_"They saw each other once, before Basil left. But that encounter is hardly worth describing as it didn't change anything… Although in a better world it should have."_

_"Oh, please, tell us about it!" Lady Greenaway begged._

_"Yes, do tell," her husband joined in._

_"After all," reasoned Lady Weatherby, "once you've started telling, you might as well tell us everything you know."_

_The storyteller shrugged._

_"Very well then…"_

_

* * *

  
_

It was already past midnight and Basil was still unable to fall asleep. He finally gave up and got dressed. He only had a couple of hours anyway. He was planning on taking a train very early in the morning. The chances that anyone he knew would be up and about at that time were slim and he was rather hoping to avoid any of his acquaintances screaming upon seeing him. They would probably think him a ghost.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the hands of the clock. He had literally nothing to do. He had said his farewells to the doctor, his wife, Harry and Victoria.

Rody had not come since their last argument, which was probably for the best under the circumstances. Yet Basil could not help longing to see him one last time. He had spent hours debating if he should go and visit him but in the end, he hadn't. Now it was too late anyway.

Growing agitated, Basil decided to go to the station early. That would give him the added advantage of reaching it while it was still dark and minimizing the chance of unwanted encounters. Harry had sent his luggage the day before so he only had one bag with him.

When he reached the station, he was almost the only one there besides the Station Master and a few early passengers for the same train who were smoking some distance away.

He walked up and down the platform, trying to get rid of his anxiety. It would be all right once he got on the train, he told himself. It was the feeling that he could still turn back, that was making him feel like this.

The ninth time when he turned around to walk back along the tracks, there was a figure standing there, hands in his pockets, coat and hair blowing in the night wind.

Basil stopped in his tracks for a few moments. Then, with a resigned sigh, he walked to where the man was standing.

"Well… I'm glad you decided to come and say goodbye, Rody," he said. Although he wasn't sure he was really glad. This only made things harder.

"I didn't come to say goodbye," Rody objected but then paused.

Basil had never seen him look more boyish. Every few seconds the wind would blow strands of hair in his face and he would flick them back impatiently, fixing his gaze back on the painter. His lips were slightly parted and moved imperceptibly, as if there were unspoken words there trying to escape. His eyes conveyed a somewhat childish and strangely touching determination – the kind that most young boys showed when they were unhappy with the way the world was rolling and they swore to the stars to turn it around.

Rody usually depended on intelligence and reason to win his arguments. Seeing him stripped of his usual weapons and facing a battle with nothing but sheer hope was making Basil take small steps backwards. Facing him up close was too hard. He could counter arguments. He could even ignore reason. But one simple plea from those lips would cost him the world to say 'no' to.

"I came to apologize for the way I acted last time. Please, don't get on that train."

Basil sighed and looked away.

"Oh, Rody… Can't we just part as friends?"

"But you don't even treat me as a friend anymore! You don't tell me anything!"

"What is there to tell?"

"Why are you going to Paris?"

"Because I have to. I need to. Please, just let me go."

Rody stared at him for a long time, searching for answers that Basil didn't know how to give. Finally, he lowered his eyes.

"Very well, then," he said quietly.

Basil breathed a sigh of relief but there was a guilty feeling in his chest. He extended his hand. Rody took it and held on a little longer than necessary. Basil was involuntarily reminded of the time he himself had done the same. For an instant he wished he could go back to that moment and not let go at all.

"I will always be your friend, Rody," he said sincerely. "Wherever I am."

The other man managed a smile.

"I'm glad for that. You know what they say. Friendship lasts…"

* * *

"…_longer than love," the storyteller finished._

"_I disagree."_

_To everyone's surprise it was Lord Greenaway who had said this. He seemed now to be as entranced in the story as his wife, although he was still attempting not to show it too much. _

"_Friendship is the most important part of love," he continued, "but that does not mean that love in its entirety cannot last as well."_

"_It often doesn't, I'm afraid."_

"_But why do you say this?"_

_Instead of answering, the storyteller turned around to look at the two portraits. _

"_In a way, these two pictures represent Basil Hallward's two great obsessions. Dorian Gray and Roderick Lewin. Dorian's looks were the inspiration for the first. The second is a tribute to Sybil Vane's innocent life but it's also an attempt to capture Rody's character. Basil painted them both without really understanding what he was painting. It took him quite some time to realize how different they were from one another, to separate obsession from love. _

_Quite some time and it was too long. _

_When he was finally able to understand his own feelings, he returned to London. He could not find Rody in his home. He eventually travelled to his mother's country estate only to learn from Lady Meryl that her son had left for America just two days before. When Basil returned to his own __house, he found a letter that had been sent on the very day he had left Paris. It had arrived at his quarters there and had been resent to the address he had given in England. It had travelled all the way to Paris and back before it had finally found him."_

"_What did the letter say?" Lady Greenaway asked almost in a whisper. _

_The storyteller hesitated. The rest of the gallery was drowning in chatter but their corner stayed strangely quiet and no other person had wandered this way since he had started talking. Perhaps some leftover magic in the pictures demanded for their full story to be told. Finally he took another sheet of paper from his pocket and read out loud:_

'_**Dear Basil,**_

_**I hope this letter finds you happy and well.**_

_**I am writing to tell you that I have decided to go to America for an indefinite period of time. Harry says that people there know so little about any kind of art that I will be most appreciated. **_

_**This past year I have published a book of poetry and I am in the process of finishing my first novel. The poetry book you shall receive as a package. I hope you won't laugh at me too much. **_

_**There is something I want to say here because I don't know when we will come into contact again and I feel it is time to close a certain page. **_

_**On the day of your fabricated funeral you asked me what I had said about you and I didn't tell you the truth. You had no chance of hearing any flying rumors either. But what I really said is enclosed in this letter. It's something that belongs to you and always will. You can do with it whatever you want. It has never been published. **_

_**In conclusion, I want to repeat your own promise: you and I will always be friends. **_

_**As for love… Love should never be unhappy or alone. **_

_**So let us only love those who love us back. But let us never regret love that was given to someone who deserved it.**_

_**Your friend,**_

_**Roderick Lewin'**_

_There seemed to be perfect silence as he finished reading. His listeners were throwing uncertain glances at each other. Finally, the gentleman with the sideburns, who had remained quietly disgusted for most of the story, spoke up in a loud, contemptuous voice._

"_I have never heard such a despicable load of indecent fabrications! Even if such a story existed, there is no way you could know such details about it! Who are you, sir? Indeed, it is quite rude of you not to have introduced yourself! Before spinning such a tale, you should have told us your name."_

_The younger man gave him a level look and, instead of answering, removed his cravat and unbuttoned the top buttons of his collar. _

_There was a collective gasp. A jagged scar crossed his neck just behind his right ear. _

"_I can assure you I have my information from trustworthy sources, sir," said Basil Hallward._

_

* * *

  
_

**End Note:** Dun-dun-duuuun! Did you ever guess it was him? Please, leave a review! There is still another chapter to go and an epilogue so there's still reason to urge me to post ;P.


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Well, here we are at the end! Thank you for the wonderful reviews, I appreciate them more than I can say! xx

Some of you pointed out the resemblance between Rody and Robert Ross. Funnily enough, just like Oscar wrote Dorian Gray before a similar character entered his own life, I admit I barely knew anything about Robbie's personality when I started this. I watched 'Wilde' halfway through 'Roses' and until then it hadn't occurred to me that I was sort of writing a fan fiction for Oscar's life as much as Basil's. Now, if we're talking about Ross' portrayal in the movie, I think Rody is still a little more juvenile and less serious, more headstrong... Maybe a mixture of Robbie and some of Bosie's good qualities but yes, definitely more Robbie so you are right to make parallels. By the way, the similarity in the names was absolutely unintentional and, oddly enough, I hadn't even noticed until Stephanie pointed it out. Maybe because Rody's full name is Roderick, which is fairly different from Robert and the short form just came naturally. A piece of trivia – Rody's _surname_ was intentionally chosen. It means 'dear friend' in old English.

The 'joke' with old lord Douglas in this chapter is also clearly intentional – I just couldn't resist.

All right, enough of my babbling. On with the chapter.

* * *

**Chapter five**

_**Memories and c**__**oincidences**_

Basil had left the gallery after revealing his true identity. He felt tired, not to mention he wanted to avoid the ruckus the news of his 'resurrection' was sure to cause.

He had certainly made a show this time. A bit uncharacteristic of him. Now everyone would say it had been a scheme to draw more attention to his paintings. Well, he could not deny that that would probably be one of the side-effects. But he had not planned to tell the story at all. It had come out of his mouth of its own volition.

He briefly wondered if the gentleman with the sideburns (Lord Douglas he now remembered was his name) would try to get him convicted for 'gross indecency'. Sooner not. Lord Douglas had gone pale as a sheet when he had found out whom he had been talking to. While Basil had no doubt that the old man would have gladly insulted him to his face, had he known who he was from the beginning, the suddenness of the revelation had rendered him speechless. He would recover, of course, but it was rather unlikely that he would take any action against Basil. He had no proof and any dangerous implications that had been made could easily be denied. Not to mention the sad fact that there had not actually _been_ any 'gross indecency' going on between him and Rody.

So, revealing who he was had closed Lord Douglas' mouth at the time. But it had opened Lady Weatherby's. Literally and metaphorically. She had stood there with her jaw hanging for close to a minute. After which, of course, she had run to tell everyone.

He had made his escape at that point and taken a hansom.

His home address had been on the tip of his tongue but then he had hesitated and finally given the address of his studio. He might as well see it again before going back to Paris. England seemed to have nothing good to offer him. It only stirred memories of a time that was lost forever. One final look at the past would be enough. Then he would go back to France and live his life. He knew he could do that, even if he wasn't sure he could be completely happy. It seemed that at some point in his life he had acquired a habit of hurting himself with his own actions and now his existence could be summed up into one big, pathetic pile of 'if onlys'. He felt tired. And old. He was far too young to feel old but Harry was right – youth needed company. If you were alone, you were old. If you were among people who were young at heart, you could stay that way too.

Well, it all came down to one thing – he missed Rody. He could technically try to find him, even in America, but, even if they were to see each other again, it would never be the same. He had done exactly what he had been trying to prevent – he had lost Rody as a friend simply on the basis of prolonged separation. There was something desperately sad about the image of paths diverging, of friends drifting apart until affection was based on old memories rather than on sharing the same life.

Well, he had no one to blame. This was his punishment for never trusting his feelings, for never taking a chance. Most of all, for being cruel and selfish enough to leave Rody alone when he had begged him not to. He really should have known better. How many times had Dorian deserted him after another hopeless request to stay? How many times had Basil imagined the simple happiness of hearing 'yes' for once?

He could almost see himself standing there at Victoria station, all but trembling under Rody's imploring gaze. What if it had gone differently?

'_Please, don't go.' _

_A shuddering intake of breath. _

'_I won't.' _

It would have been so simple – the weight suddenly lifting off his shoulders and Rody's tense features melting back into the familiar grin. They would have gone home – either of their homes, really – and had breakfast and talked. They would have called Harry. He would have arrived to roll his eyes and mock Basil's inability to stick to a decision. And everything would have been just fine…

Basil shook himself. He shouldn't be thinking of that. He would be much better off trying to forget.

He had given the poem to Lady Greenaway as means of leaving it in the past. But it had been foolish of him to think that parting with a piece of paper would be enough. He remembered every word.

_Misunderstanding love and passion_

_Is maybe our worst mistake._

_May it be clear with this confession_

_That you can have this heart to break._

_But if you have the love to love me_

_And honest kisses to return_

_With their sacred imperfection_

_Two suns will shine, two worlds will turn._

Someone had been ready to promise him the world. And the only reason that promise had not been fulfilled was his own fear.

Now what he was afraid of was the sight of the dark and empty studio that would greet him in a few minutes. He suddenly wished that Harry was not out of town at the moment. A good friend's company would do him far more good than the cold stares of his paintings.

To his surprise, the windows of the studio were actually lit when the hansom stopped in front of it. He was quite puzzled for a moment but then he figured Harry must have come back from his trip. Indeed, Lord Wotton had received the keys to the studio when Basil had left his paintings in his hands. What he was doing at the studio so late in the evening was a mystery but Basil felt grateful for the coincidence.

He paid the driver and walked through the familiar garden. The poppies were blooming again. He could just barely see them in the pale light. Of course, the garden had not been tended to for two whole years but poppies always found a way to grow unaided even where nothing else did.

Basil reached the house and entered it, preparing to give Lord Henry a warm greeting. The words died unspoken on his lips. Leaning on the armrest of the divan, with a sketchbook on his knees, sat Rody Lewin.

* * *

"What an evening!" Irene Greenaway exclaimed as she let her hair down.

"It certainly was," George agreed.

"There is one thing bothering me, though," his wife said frowning. "I looked at the portrait carefully. There was only one butterfly left. Mr. Hallward never addressed what had happened to the second one."

"I supposed it must have flown away when Dorian Gray died. If you believe all this talk about magic to begin with."

"Yes, that's what Mr. Hallward must have thought at least," Irene said thoughtfully, ignoring the last comment, "because otherwise he would have been surprised to see that it was missing. However… If Basil Hallward didn't die when the first butterfly disappeared, do you think it's possible that Dorian Gray is still alive?"

"I don't see how."

"But this story had so many twists and turns so far. Don't you think it's possible that the butterflies symbolize something else? Something more complicated than simply the lives of three young men?"

"The lives of three young men are complicated enough, if you ask me. But I suppose everything is possible, my dear. In your imagination, if nowhere else. Now come to bed."

Irene obeyed, resolving to leave her husband in peace, at least for the time being. But at the back of her mind the question still nagged her. When exactly had the second butterfly left the canvas?

* * *

Basil froze in the doorway, unable to move or tear his eyes from the man in front of him. Rody raised his head when he sensed him standing there and his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Basil! I… did not expect to see you here tonight."

"Neither did I," Basil said in astonishment. "I thought you were on your way to America."

"I was. You clearly haven't read the papers."

"Not the last two days, no. What happened?"

"My ship broke down. No victims but we were lucky to make it back to England in one piece."

"God, I'm sorry, it must have been terrible!"

Basil was going through the motions of the conversation automatically but his heart clenched. Here was the distance he had dreaded, the dry politeness in every word. What was the point of this amazing coincidence, of them both being here tonight, if were going to act like mere acquaintances?

"Yes, well, I wasn't dying to get on a ship right away again, so... don't just stand at the door, Basil, this is your own studio… so I decided to postpone the journey," Rody explained as Basil stiffly too k a seat. "I went to see my mother first thing when I came back and she told me you were here and asking for me. She told me about the exhibition too. I thought you would still be at the opening at this time. Congratulations, by the way. One of the greatest examples of modern art, that's what they say about your work. I can't disagree."

"Thank you. But what are you doing at the studio? When I saw the light, I thought Harry might be back in town. Although I could not imagine what business he would have here."

"Harry isn't back yet but I took the key from Victoria. I just wanted to… take a look around the place. I hadn't seen it in a while. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind? Of course I don't mind!" Basil said passionately. "Rody, you are still my best friend. There is nothing I would hesitate to share with you! Not my studio, not my home, not the food on my table, not my bed…" He clamped a hand over his mouth. "Oh, dear, that came out wrong."

Rody chuckled and the old sparkle came back to his eyes for a moment.

"So, have you returned to England for good?" he asked. "Got tired of Paris?"

"No I… I am leaving again tomorrow. The day after, at the latest."

Rody frowned.

"So fast? Then why did you come back in the first place?"

"I…"

Another carefully avoided conversation, Basil thought. Another confession unmade, another secret unrevealed… His dignity wasn't worth that much. Rody had been far more honest with him, if not completely direct. And if Basil hadn't spoken up when he should have, it was his own fault. He had to speak now.

"I came for you," he admitted. "Rody… you have to know that your feelings were never unreturned. I might have recognized my own too late and I'm paying for it but I do love you. I am not saying this because I expect any sympathy or any… Anything at all. I just wanted to tell you that you did not do a single thing wrong. And I am dreadfully sorry for what I put you through. I don't know if you can understand but I was afraid I was becoming obsessed with you, like I had been with Dorian. I didn't think it would be healthy for either of us. And, back then, I wasn't entirely sure if all you felt for me was friendship or something else. I hope you can forgive me…"

Rody drummed his fingers on his leg.

"Forgive you. Oh dear. All right, I don't know how to react to this."

He got up and started pacing. He looked quite angry.

"You put us both through two years of misery because you couldn't take a hint and because you compared your feelings towards me to those you had for Dorian Gray? The first is definitely an insult to yourself, since it was obviously hard for you to believe that someone might have been in love with you, unless they signed a statement in triplicate. As for the second, I'm not sure if I should take it as an insult or a compliment. I am very obviously not Dorian and I never wanted you to be obsessed with me. Well, all right, maybe sometimes, when I saw how you looked at him… But do you actually mean to tell me that when you stood there at that train station and I begged you to stay, you wanted to say yes? But you went and got on the train instead?"

As much as Basil thought he deserved his friend's anger, his instincts prompted him to try to defend himself.

"Rody, it really wasn't that simple. It was incredibly hard for me to leave you."

"Then why, in God's name, _did_ you?"

"I was a mess. I didn't know what I felt. Even if I had stayed, things might not have gone as well as you would like to believe. I needed time to figure myself out. I'm sorry it took me so long, you can't imagine how sorry. But that's just how it happened."

"All right, so you needed time. Why didn't you try to explain? I would have understood."

"If I had told you to wait, I'm afraid you would have done just that. It would have been unfair to make you arrest your life because of me. You have been doing so much better without me. Look at you! You're a poet and a writer. A wonderful one, if I might add."

"Then why did you come back at all?" Rody asked, still angry, ignoring the compliment.

Basil shook his head.

"I thought… It was foolish of me but I didn't know if… You see, I wasn't sure if you had moved on. Your letter only reached me three days ago when I was already here."

Rody stopped pacing and stared at him.

"My letter."

"Yes."

"So you read it."

"Yes."

"And you decided to escape back to Paris. Without even seeing me."

"You were on your way to America."

Rody paused and frowned.

"Oh. That's right, I forgot… But even so, I'm here now. And you still intend to go back to Paris tomorrow. So what? If you can't have me as a lover I don't deserve your company anymore?"

"Rody, what on Earth…?! Since when do you talk like that?"

"Since you are driving me insane with your logic!"

"You wrote that you had turned a new page, I didn't want to get in the way…"

Rody drew in a deep breath that didn't seem to help too much.

"Basil," he said slowly "you are missing a crucial point. The bloody letter was written when I thought you were never coming back, let alone confessing your love for me, you bloody idiot!"

The next thing Basil knew, Rody was compensating for two years of missed kisses.

"You… deserve… to be… shot!" he managed to say in between them. "Except I wouldn't let it happen, of course."

"Shall I take it you still love me then?" the painter asked when he was finally able to breathe. He felt dizzy and wasn't quite sure if it was from lack of oxygen or happiness or maybe both. Rody laughed into his shirt.

"You damn fool. Of course I still love you. I always have. I want to strangle you at times but I think that's part of it. I could never stop loving you."

Basil closed his eyes and let his cheek rest on the soft brown-red locks.

"I am so, so sorry! I was such an insufferable…"

"It hardly matters now," Rody interrupted him.

And, oddly enough, it really didn't. It was as if one kiss (well, twenty) had been enough to erase the last two years entirely.

As he bent down for another, more serious kiss, with less hesitation or fear than he had ever felt, Basil's last coherent thought was that Dorian had been wrong. God did listen. Coincidences were simply his way of remaining anonymous.

* * *

It's one of the wonders of life that what seems like a stroke of bad luck could turn into something beautiful. A few accidental spots on the canvas do not always ruin a picture. Not when they can be transformed into butterflies.

* * *

**End Note:** And there you are. I know all of us wanted them to get together. Happy now? I hope you are and I also hope you will drop me a note to say so. And make sure you read the epilogue. It's not about these two but you may still find it interesting ;). This series has material for at least one more story.


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Somewhere very far from there, a man got on a train. He was walking with his shoulders hunched and hiding beneath his long hair and the rim of his head. He found a compartment which was at least relatively empty and sat down, barely nodding to the two other passengers – a middle-aged black woman and a young girl of no more than twenty. The later had the distinct look of a southern belle – all lace and ribbons and glossy blonde curls.

The man settled next to the window without removing his hat.

A storm was raging outside and drops of rain were banging on the glass. Night was already falling, and in the darkness, all that could be seen were the shadows of the trees, waving madly in the wind.

"What a delightful storm, Hattie!" the girl said, addressing the black woman with an accent which confirmed that she was indeed from the southern states. "Fairytale time, my father used to call such weather."

Her companion shook her head.

"Strange girl you are, Miss Sue-Ellen, strange girl. Every living creature's looking for a place to hide and you – fairytale."

"Why, don't you think it is a beautiful weather, mister?" the girl asked playfully, clearly seeking in him an ally against the older woman's rationality.

The man shifted uncomfortably before answering.

"I suppose so," he said shortly, hoping to discourage any further attempts at conversation.

But the girl's interest seemed to peek when she heard his voice. It sounded much younger than she had expected.

"Where are you travelling to?"

"Washington."

She clapped her hands.

"Then we shall be together the whole journey. Hattie and I are headed there too! Are you on business? Hattie and I are off to visit my sister and her husband. I should like to live in Washington some day too. The South is so old-fashioned…"

And in a gallery many miles away something stirred. There was a quiet sound, like crumpling paper… or the wings of a butterfly struggling to leave its painted prison.

Maybe such is the sound when Life rustles the pages of a whole new story…

* * *

**End Note:** Please leave a review to let me know what you think and I will see you in the next one!

Love,

Yana


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